Gertrude, Queen of Denmark
by HannokiKaen
Summary: Ever wondered what Gertrude, Hamlet's mother thought about all the doings on? A burnt journal entry might give you insight into one possibility.


**AN:** This is my first fanfic, but not my first story (NaNoWriMo winner here!) so I thought I would publish it here. It's something I was doing for school and took the extra mile! Hope you enjoy.

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_An account of the thoughts and writings of Gertrude, Queen of Denmark_

_Writ at Night._

When mine husband, the first, Hamlet first asked me to wed I spared not a second between proposal and answer. I said aye. I have reigned as Denmark's queen for three and thirty years and in that time none have seen me un-composed. When the gossiping tarts of the court claimed that they would do better as the wife of a king; for at least they would gift him with a son I held my head up high and made no mention of how it is difficult indeed to gain a child when ones husband is always off at war and can spare no time to see his newlywed wife. I did not break and cry when my first child died of a miscarriage, nor when I birthed my child, nor when I was told I would never have another. This is the lot in life of a woman and of a queen and I would do no less.

Still, the thought remains that I have not been this out of sorts in many a day. I have writ of this afore but perhaps I shall write of it again so that I might order my thoughts. I have married two men in my life. First came Hamlet, dashing, bold and distant. Then came Claudius, sly, wicked and present. I was young, only sixteen when I married Hamlet. He was six and twenty, a distant number but not one so far that I did not love him. A mere younger daughter of the Polish king I had been sheltered. When Hamlet came and paid court to mine father I was enamored. Likewise it seemed was he for he asked my hand after a mere six months courting, between visits in Denmark and Poland. But it was only one week after he married me that he left at his father's bidding. I began to understand and forgive him for following his duty and leaving me before I was ready (for I was only sixteen and the new Princess of Denmark) many years after he first left. That first time I blamed myself, for what sort of wife was I that could not ensnare my husband to remain in the marriage bed for more than one week? When he returned, wary and tired from several months of complaining I hurried to his side and tried to forget every cruel word said about the child-princess I had heard in the hallways. Hamlet did not realize that I had been troubled and left within the month. He took me to bed nightly – for he had not yet grown tired of his tiny bride. When he left this time, after having had his pleasure with me and not stopping to say a kind word, I hated him!

This anger was good, for it spurred me to rise above the sheltered daughter I was , and become a queen who could sit by my husband's side. This wise growth came in at a goodly time for when Hamlet was eight and twenty and I eight and ten we were crowned king and queen of Denmark. Hamlet's father was dead.

The years passed in such a fashion for the few years, Hamlet away at wars, I insulted by my own court for a lack of child and Claudius a young man only one year older than me always at my side. He defended me from those who could not hold their tongues and kept me company while my husband was away. I began to prefer my husband when he was away and I was the manager of Denmark. I resented him when he was home and I was his child-princess once again.

Things changed when Hamlet took the first mistress I knew of. She was young, like I no longer was (at the time I was one and twenty). I raged to him in the privacy of his rooms (for we had separate suites). He claimed that I was failing in my wifely duties, being a cold bedmate and obviously barren. I turned to Claudius more and more. When I was three and twenty I gave birth to my sweet Hamlet. He was _perfect_. There was only one problem. I knew not who was his father. In fear of this discovery I spent the next twenty years being the perfect dutiful wife. Until it came the time when Hamlet began to suspect. My child was away at Whittenmore but Hamlet my husband had begun to distrust me. Once he accused me wildly of being a harlot, and another time he questioned my child's paternity.

I went to my old ally Claudius. Still in love with me after all of these years, it took few manipulations for him to further despise his brother and begin to covet the crown of the king. When my husband was found dead of poison, supposedly a snakebite, I was not surprised. Hamlet was called home, inconsolable and maniac. When I married a few score days later I know he was not pleased.

It is no matter however. I have the power to be happy, and so I shall be. Writing this has reminded me of my reasons. That bit of history is well. The problem comes with Hamlet. At first I felt his bitter countenance and angry sighs would pass but they did not. I should have known better, my child could nurse a minor offense until it loomed over him like heavy armor. Now his gentle words have turned to venomous reprisals and his noble actions have turned bitter and grudging.

I could have lived with this but for one thing. He has gotten worse. Now he wanders about unshod, unlaced and all-together undone. I might have grown to hate mine dead husband, and I might still lead mine new spouse around by his lacings (all unknown of course) but Hamlet I do love.

Polonius (that sycophant old prattler) claims that his madness is due to unrequited love –to Ophelia of all inane, sweet, harmless _(irritating)_ children. Still, there might be truth to his words, and I could do much worse for a daughter than Ophelia.

I can only but hope madness comes to such a harmless end as love.

_Burned the night of writing. _


End file.
